suggestion, called upon Thomas himself to make inquiries in regard to Lucy. He found him in a sumptuous suite of apartments in the neighborhood of Whitehall. On hearing the Puritan's accusation, the youth burst into a peal of laughter. "What! you charge me with abducting a girl, and that your own daughter, friend Henderson? What do you take me for? If we were not old acquaintances, I should have responded to your charge with the horsewhip. This time I will overlook the offence and forgive you." "But Lucy was seen in your company." "In my company, and in that of many others. What does that prove? But I have no time to spare for arguing with you; I have business at court. Go, and beware henceforth of charging a nobleman with a crime, without being able to prove it. You might easily incur a heavy penalty for libel. Well, why do you stand still? You had better leave me as quickly as possible." And the overbearing youth brandished his flexible riding-whip playfully around the ears of the old Puritan, who gnashed his teeth and returned to his friend. He found him sitting at the door of the tavern and looking for his return. "Well, what do you bring?" he said eagerly to Henderson. "Nothing but the impertinent reply of an arrogant cavalier. Oh, I would I could have chastised him as I longed to do!" "The time will come when we shall call them to account for every thing, for every thing," murmured Oliver in a prophetic voice. "The present state of affairs cannot last for any length of time. The people will not bear this thraldom much longer; they will arise in their might. Woe unto those who have incurred their wrath! These haughty prelates, these overbearing nobles will repent when it is too late. Their sins will be brought home to them. Another deluge will then set in; but blood, and not water, will drown the impious sinners. As for ourselves, brother, let us watch and pray, that we may be prepared on the day of judgment, when the Lord calls us. For the time being we must submit to His will. I can no longer stay in London; my family is waiting for me at Huntingdon. I must, therefore, desist from further steps, by which we should, moreover, hardly attain our object. The Lord has visited me in wrath and heaped bitter woe on my head. I am afraid lest this child of sin should cause me yet a great deal of grief and solicitude, but I have done all I could to recover her. You may likewise go back to your home and await there the events which will surely come to pass.” "And the seducer of your daughter-shall he not be punished?" "Who says he should! I know him now, and that is sufficient; I shall not forget him; his name is in my ledger, and I warrant you that he shall pay me one day every penny he owes me." The friends then parted, and each returned to his home. CHAPTER XX. DEATH OF EDWARD KING. MILTON had led a very lonely and retired life, and been engrossed in profound studies since the festival at Ludlow Castle. He had not seen Alice again, and declined all invitations of the Bridgewater family. He had to do even without the intercourse of his friend and his long daily walks with him, as King had set out for Ireland. His beloved books, with which he was occupied night and day, were his only solace and enjoyment. These incessant studies, by which he sought to drown his grief and divert his thoughts from his unhappy love, were injurious to his health. His face became very pallid, his bright eyes were dimmed, and his gait was weary and languid. his life. A crowd of sorrowing persons fol- He reached his destination after a short journey, during which he had met with no adventures. He found the whole population in a state of great excitement, owing to a terrible disaster which had just taken place near the shore. The dreadful storm which had raged all night long had driven several vessels into the breakers, where they had been wrecked before the eyes of the inhabitants. Many lives were lost, and the waves threw the corpses of the drowned sailors upon the beach. Milton learned all this from the talkative daughter of the landlord at whose tavern he had stopped. "Oh, see," exclaimed the loquacious girl, "they are just bringing another drowned man this way. O, my God, what a handsome young man! He looks as though he were the Prince of Wales himself. He must belong to a no ble family." Milton stepped mechanically to the window which opened upon the sea. He could distinctly hear the roar of the waves, whose fury had not yet subsided. A mournful procession moved along the beach. Several fishermen were carrying the corpse of a youth who seemed to sleep. Only the matted golden ringlets, soiled with sand and sea-grass, and the closed eyes, showed that he was dead. His travelling-dress, which was that of a wealthy and aristocratic man, was saturated with water, and indicated the manner in which he had lost Uttering a piercing cry, he rushed from the "King, my Edward, my Lycidas!" he cried, and sank to the ground, overwhelmed with grief. The crowd had stepped aside on beholding him, and the fishermen had gently put down their load. All honored this outburst of profound grief, "Can he not be saved?" asked Milton, after a long pause. "He is dead," replied a kind-hearted sailor. "All is in vain; you see he has been several hours in the water. Poor young man!" "Where did you find him?" "The waves threw him on the beach near those rocks yonder. There are several other corpses yet, all belonging to the same ship. But as the young gentleman seemed to be of noble birth, we thought we would give him a Christian burial first of all." "God bless you for it!" "You seem to be his brother, or some near relation of his. I suppose, therefore, you will take charge of his funeral. Where do you want us to carry the corpse?" "To the tavern. I shall not leave him until he is buried." At Milton's request, the carriers took up the corpse again, and conveyed it to the tavern, where it was laid on a bed. After paying the fishermen for their trouble, the poet remained alone with the corpse and with his grief. "My friend, my brother, my Lycidas!" he cried, despairingly. "Thus you had to perish at the threshold of youth, in the midst of all the promises and joys of life! Oh, I would cruel death had taken me in your stead! driac. His physician advised a foreign tour. At first Milton refused to leave his father, but he yielded at last to his entreaties, and consented to go to Italy. With you, I bury my friendship and love. | distasteful to him, and there was every prosWoe to me! The sacrifice I made to you waspect of his becoming a confirmed hypochonin vain. A cruel fate has decreed otherwise." Such were Milton's lamentations by the side of his friend's remains. It was not until the next day that he recovered sufficient presence of mind to send a messenger with the mournful intelligence to King's father in Ireland, and make the necessary preparations for the temporary burial of the corpse. The poet was the only mourner that followed the coffin to the grave. Before taking leave of England for so long a time, he visited once more the graves of his mother and his beloved friend. Their remembrance accompanied him, and he wrote the sweetest verse in honor of the lamented Edward King. "Lycidas was the name he "Farewell, farewell!" he cried, as the earth gave to the most touching monody ever dedicovered his friend's remains. cated by a poet to the memory of his friend: The grave-digger had long since gone away, but he still sat on the freshly-raised mound. Dusk was already setting in; a gale was blowing from the sea, the waves roared furiously, and upon the sky scudded dark, ragged clouds, from which the moon burst pale and weird. In his despair, Milton did not notice that many hours passed by. Unutterable woe weighed him down; he had lost all his friend, his beloved, his youth, all were buried in this grave. When he rose at last, he had become a man, ripe, sober, and grave; his ideals were destroyed; his purest and holiest feelings had left him. He became afterward acquainted with other men and women; his poetical heart throbbed for them too, but no longer so warmly and enthusiastically as it had once done for King and Alice. Ah, man rises only once on the wings of youth to heaven; paralyzed by the thunderbolts of fate, or by the hand of time, he is no longer able to soar to those divine heights. Milton returned mournfully to his father's house, where another blow was in store for him. His mother's disease had become so aggravated that she was at the point of death. The faithful son did not leave her bedside until she breathed her last in his arms. This new loss was too much for him; it undermined his health. His favorite occupations became 66 We were nursed upon the self-same hill: Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone, The willows, and the hazel-copses green, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. There entertain him all the saints above, To all that wander in that perilous flood. ΒΟΟΚ II. CHAPTER I. PARIS-HUGO GROTIUS. ITALY is a Circe, a sweet enchantress, who, with seductive smiles, presents the cup of forgetfulness to the Northern wanderer. Her soft breezes caress and fondle him, until they smooth his ruffled brow and drive his grief from his heart. Despair cannot dwell long under that ever-clear, azure sky, and the golden sunlight dispels the gloom of the soul; even night is there not the time for melancholy and contemplation, but for mirth and enjoyment. The light-hearted people prrform the tarantella over ruins and tombs; the guitar and tambourine fill the air with their gay notes, and the merry youths move in the graceful mazes of the dance. Love-not the cold and sober affection of the North, but the glowing, devouring passion of the South-dwells amid green myrtles and the flaming red blossoms of the pomegranate. The orange-tree bends under the load of its golden fruit, and the vine spreads its luxuriant leaves, in whose shade the happy reveller quaffs his fiery must. Every thing breathes pleasure and enjoyment, and temptation smiles in every nook. Beautiful women, with dark ringlets and burning eyes, weave their charming nets around the Northern barbarian; they are the daughters of those sirens who sang with such sweetness that they who sailed by forgot their country, and died in an ecstasy of delight; the language of the country still sounds as sweet as music, and retains its ancient charm. The voluptuousness of Italy is not coarse and repulsive, but clad in the garb of beauty and art; religion itself is in its service. The Madonna is only a lovely woman, a happy mother with her charming boy in her arms; she smiles at sinners, and forgives the guilty with feminine mildness. These saints and martyrs, notwithstanding their torments, are splendid men and women, whose beautiful forms delight the eyes of the educated beholder. The churches are radiant with variegated colors, golden ornaments, and mosaics; the choir sings in strains of surpassing beauty; and faith is not angry with love entering its sanctuary. With fervent prayers mingle the ardent sighs of earthly passion, and on beholding the heavenly virgin, the worshipper thinks also of the lovely girl kneeling so close by his side that the hem of her garment touches him. Their eyes meet, their glances speak an eloquent language, even though their lips must be silent; signs of a secret understanding are exchanged, and the clasped hands often indicate, in a manner understood only by the initiated, the hour when they shall meet again. The penitent sinner kneels in the confessional, and the indulgent priest grants absolution to the contrite girl. The treasures of art and science, amassed |